


going the wrong way home

by moonlightmusings



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Roadtrip, Writer Dan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 08:05:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8481874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlightmusings/pseuds/moonlightmusings
Summary: “Maybe,” Phil says, pondering for a moment before flopping back onto Dan’s bed and tugging Dan down with him. “Where’d we even go?”  “Somewhere under the stars,” Dan muses, staring up at the ceiling and playing with a strand of Phil’s hair.  “Pretentious.” Phil’s tone is teasing, yet not malicious. Dan laughs, because it’s true, because he knows damn well every poem in his notebook compares the beauty marks littering Phil’s arm to Orion’s belt and the specks of yellow in his irises to the shooting stars reflected in the twilight sky. He laughs because it’s true: he’s ostentatious and in love with a boy who’ll be gone in the blink of an eye, in a streak of light and an explosion, little pieces of an asteroid the only evidence he ever existed. or the almost-college au where dan and phil take a summer road trip.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been working on this fic since April 2016, and now seven months later I’m so happy to be able to post this. This project taught me a lot about myself as a writer, it connected me with an incredible person who quickly became my best friend, and it let me write one of my absolute favorite tropes. This fic is very dear to my heart, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
>  
> 
> A massive thank you goes my best friend/partner in crime/beta, who basically said “fuck professionalism” and went straight to friendship the day we first started talking. Scout, you helped make this fic everything it is. Thank you for always pushing me to keep writing and find inspiration and happiness in the little things. I can’t thank you enough not only for the dedication and love you’ve shown my writing, but for being my friend as well. You’ve taken my hand and run with me and my ambitious ideas; from a real-life summer road trip to going half-way across the world together. I promise when we actually get on the road I won’t drive like I do in Mario Kart. Thank you for your kindness, your passion, your support, and for listening to me profess my love for Dan at 1 AM when I really should have been asleep. There's nobody like you in this world Scout, I’ll forever be grateful for you being in my life. 
> 
>  
> 
> A huge thank you goes to one of my closest friends, Mehru! You saw this fic in it’s baby stages and I know how long you’ve been waiting to read it. I’m so glad you’ve stuck around for the final product. Thank you for always encouraging this fic, showing me so much love and kindness and for being one of the most vibrant people I’ve ever come into contact with. Thank you for listening to me yell about Dan and for always being there for me. You’re a million miles away but you’ll always be so close to my heart. 
> 
> Also, thank you to Tess for creating art for this fic! You can find that [here](http://smirklester.tumblr.com/post/152753985701/heres-my-art-for-djhanimes-phandom-big-bang/)
> 
> This fic started off as a random prompt I wrote on my arm in class. It’s morphed into something wonderful and it is with great pleasure that I am finally able to post this!
> 
>  
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://djhanime.tumblr.com/)
> 
> enjoy x.

  
  


During Dan’s senior year of high school, he’s drowning, drowning in black coffee and a sea of crumpled up, rejected beginnings. The pen he’s holding is cold, and the pungent smell of ink begins to make him sick. 

 

During Phil’s senior year of high school, he’s floating, floating on clouds made of praises and a rocketship made of stardust and new beginnings. He doesn’t notice the way Dan pushes away college brochures dejectedly, or chews on his pen cap nervously. 

 

When he speaks to Dan he’s as enthusiastic as ever, painting pictures of cotton candy cushioned college offers and pristine white lecture halls. 

 

It’s so foreign to Dan, Dan who is boisterous and frank, and absolutely everything that doesn’t fit into the clean cut college applications being thrown at him. There’s little to no solace in his undefined future, and the fact that he’s okay with that scares him the most. 

 

+

They huddle on Phil’s too-tiny bed when Dan stays over. Phil’s pouring over college information, flipping through packet after packet and absorbing information the way fire does a forest. Dan lies parallel to him, pen in hand and scrawling across notebook pages. His hand moves quickly, ink flowing steadily as he fills up the page. He can barely read his handwriting, but it doesn’t matter: it’s nowhere near coherent, and he knows he’ll end up tearing out the page, crumpling it in his palm and tossing it in the trash.

 

Dan tries not to think about the dichotomy of what they’re doing. Dan’s neglected his last physics homework assignment: it’s sitting at home, in an unassuming pile under his bed, along with failed tests and in part, his hopelessness. Meanwhile, Phil is planning out the next four years of his life with a pen and highlighter.

 

Despite their differences that have been evident since they first became friends, Phil gives him hope, and he keeps a bit of it tucked away in his jacket pocket. Part of it is placed under his tongue, and it holds back any dark thoughts from slipping through the spaces between his teeth. 

 

He wonders if Phil will take the hope with him when he leaves, if he’ll place it in the open palm of another, another whose life is on track and isn’t hiding behind a journal or awake for no reason at 4 in the morning. 

 

When Phil’s finished with all of the packets, it’s nearing 3:30 in the morning; his hair is matted, and runs in different directions across his forehead as a result of him running his fingers through his fringe constantly. There’s dark matter creating cookie-cutter half circles under his eyes, and his eyelashes flutter like butterfly wings on a summer’s day. Dan wants to swipe away the tired painted in dark circles under his lids. 

 

Phil smiles at him, sleepy and delayed, a small giggle making his body shake. They have to keep quiet, or else Phil’s parents will swing the door open, and like a crack of lightning the moment will dissolve in a puddle of rain drops and empty promises. 

 

Phil hasn’t explicitly said it but Dan knows. Dan knows it’s going to ruin him when September comes with fresh dorm rooms and crunching Autumn leaves under car tires on University campuses. He knows that Ivy League college boys don’t kiss boys who have sadness written in the crease of their lips. He knows it’s fleeting and he’ll be oozing heartbreak from the wound on his right ventricle for months. 

 

Long after Phil’s been settled into Harvard and is reading novels by the golden lamplight or dusting eraser shavings off his pressed blazer, Dan will still be writing the same sentences over and over ( _ he broke my heart and I let it happen _ ), and telling them to anyone who will listen. 

 

He’ll whisper the vowels to a tequila shot at 11:30 PM and clean the consonants out from under his fingernails. 

 

He doesn’t notice he’s staring into space until Phil takes his hands and rubs at the ink stains at the side of his hand. The blue stands out from his pale skin and he notices the same pattern in the toothpaste remains in Phil’s bathroom sink. 

 

When they finally pull the duvet over themselves it’s 4AM; Phil turns over, and sets his glasses neatly on the bedside table. He’s every clean-cut-next-door-movie character ever created, and Dan thinks he’d be the antagonist in Phil’s movie, the stereotypical bad boy who skips school to fill the cracks between their heart with nicotine and cheap soda. 

 

His own belongings, journal and pen, sit askew on the desk across Phil’s room. In the soft lamplight he can see the deep blue of Phil’s eyes and the curve of his waist under the blankets.

 

It turns out he’s wrong: Ivy League college boys with a bright future ahead of them do kiss boys with crumpled up college applications at the bottom of their knapsack; they kiss with fervor and lusty undertones where tongues meet. 

 

Phil tastes like mint and something sweet. When Dan latches his lips onto his collarbone, he notices Phil smells like fresh linens and a woodsy aftershave. It’s fucking intoxicating, and all too surreal. He’s kissing Phil Lester, most loved kid in the school and probably the valedictorian of their graduating class. 

 

He remembers the moment’s fleeting and presses their bodies together once more. In the morning, he’ll blame it on the open window near Phil’s bed, and right now, he’ll blame it on the lust. In September, he’ll blame it on love. 

 

They kiss and kiss for what feels like forever. Curtailed whimpers curl around Dan’s ear and he sucks galaxies into the hollow of Phil’s collarbone in response. 

 

Soon, their movements become lethargic and they fall asleep, Phil’s arm around Dan’s back and Dan’s face pressed into the softness of Phil’s shirt.

 

: :

 

They awake around 12, the sun at its peak and the birds chirping happily. They groggily shuffle around in bed, tangled sheets like restraints of sleep keeping them close together. 

 

Phil offers to make pancakes and Dan agrees. He’ll never turn down a free meal, especially if it means he has more time to scribble in his journal. The kitchen floor is icy on his bare feet, so he hoists himself up on the kitchen counter while Phil sets ingredients beside him, one by one in a neat row. 

 

Dan begins to lose himself in his writing as Phil bustles around the kitchen. He helps a little, throwing blueberries in the bowl in between paragraphs.

 

Somewhere after Phil successfully flips the fifth pancake he sets his notebook aside and chews thoughtfully on the pencap, watching Phil’s fluid movements throughout the room. 

 

He somehow looks breathtaking doing something as mundane as flipping pancakes and whistling an old Muse song. His pajama pants are strung low on his hips, giving Dan shy peaks of his boxers. 

 

He’s filled with an overwhelming desire to kiss Phil, making him dizzy as he steps off the counter and shuts off the burner. 

 

“Hey!” Phil protests as Dan makes him walk backwards, stumbling steps like a baby kitten until his back is pressed against to the wall. Dan traces the constellations of freckles against Phil’s skin. Phil’s hands grab his waist until they’re flush against each other.

 

“Hi.” Dan finally responds into the crook of Phil’s neck, nosing around at the area and licking at the marks left from last night. This is what he loves about being with Phil. It’s no secret he likes cooking with him and letting him read his writing and kissing him, but God, he loves kissing Phil, loves feeling his curvy body pressed against his own and feeling plush lips against his own.

 

“Dan, the food.” Phil’s voice is sandpaper, raspy and still sleep-ridden. Dan ignores him in favor of tilting his head and slotting their lips together. This time, he tastes chocolate and sweetness. He bites Phil’s bottom lip, pulling it into his mouth before letting it go. Phil whimpers, sighing blissfully and hungrily sliding their tongues together. 

 

It’s domestic, yet so dirty at the same time. 

 

The pancakes are cold when they recollect themselves and Dan stops sucking the pale skin of Phil’s neck, pressing stardust sprinkled kisses onto his collarbones. 

 

“ _ Dan _ ,” Phil whines, petulant when he finds the pancakes cold. Dan shrugs: they can always make more. 

 

They do make more - more than they’ll probably eat - and then sit on Phil’s couch watching 90’s TV shows. Dan makes caustic remarks and Phil chimes in with terrible puns, their familiar routine. 

 

Except now, it involves a lot more kissing and groping. 

 

: :

 

Dan sleeps over the day before graduation and regrets it before the night’s even begun. He's graduating, which is a miracle in its own way. Aside from impeccable english grades, he’s no star student, so it hasn’t sunk in yet, or not properly at least. It’s a foreign thought, something that’s not supposed to be there; it feels like discovering a new planet, something that’s exciting yet harrowing and scarily filled with new prospects, all rolled into one, over-rehearsed 90 minute ceremony for their parents’ benefits. 

 

Phil, like usual, is bouncing around the room, flitting between making sure his cap and gown are pristine and wrinkle-free for tomorrow and rehearsing his valedictorian speech. Dan can tell he’s nervous and he wants to kiss the worried lines off of Phil’s forehead, wants him spread out and wanton, shivering from the air conditioner and then burning with the heat of impending orgasm. 

 

“Come ‘ere,” Dan slurs out when he’s grown bored of watching Phil pace and pace, muttering snippets of “thank you’s” and “I couldn’t have done it without you all.” It’s endearing because it’s Phil, the sunshine of their graduating class, the model student and everyone’s favorite. 

 

It’s not that Dan wishes he was the favorite, because he doesn’t. He has his own strengths but they don’t lie in conventional things, such as turning in homework on time or not slipping off topic on history essays. He’s talented with a pen and a notebook. It’s the only thing he’s good at and he’ll be damned if anyone takes that away from him. 

 

“I’ve got to practice, Dan,” Phil huffs out. He’s visibly annoyed, Dan catching parts of it in his body language: the way he shoves his fringe back away from his forehead, takes an angry sip of water, and then goes back to reading over his notecards. 

 

“You’ve practiced enough. It’s been ages since you’ve started.” Dan flips over onto his stomach and wriggles across the bed far enough to catch Phil’s hand. It’s cold and a little damp from the water bottle. He presses it against his cheek and looks up at Phil. 

 

Phil sighs, scratches at his hip. For a second Dan thinks he’ll come to his senses, letting go of being a prim proper graduate for a second and kiss Dan senseless under the sheets. 

 

It’s stupid to expect Phil to put Dan before anything. He takes his hand out of Dan’s grip and goes back to pacing. Dan becomes bright red with embarrassment and sits back on his heels. Hurt and a little angry, he’ll later deny the small prickles of tears that pool at his waterline. He flops back on Phil’s bed and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes so hard he sees bursts of phosphenes. 

 

Sometimes it’s nice with Phil, when he forgets about his responsibilities. Other times, Dan finds himself wishing he hid himself better behind Hemingway’s poetry the day Phil came to the library. 

 

“Fine,” Dan says and picks up where he left off with his pen. Fine, he’s fine, what does it matter? Phil’s going to choose Harvard or Howard or whatever other school he was accepted into. He taps his pen against his notebook incessantly and is restless with something akin to anger. 

 

There are times when he feels Phil slipping away from him the hardest, like they’re in the roughest part of the sea, swimming in inner turmoil and the world’s burdens are weighing them down. The water seeps into the cracks in between their fingers and prys them apart. 

 

Writing is futile now, so instead he lays with his head on Phil’s pillow and stares aimlessly out of the window. 

 

: : 

 

Like usual, they always makeup after a fight. Dan stands his ground, back firmly turned to Phil and front facing the moonlight streaming through the window. The bed dips beside him, springs creaking and sheets rustling as Phil settles in beside him. He aches to reach out to Phil and snuggle in close to his chest. He can faintly smell Phil’s aftershave, a spicy, intoxicating scent that makes Dan’s head spin with every inhale. 

 

“Baby,” Phil whispers, soft and mollifying into his ear. Something in Dan’s resolve cracks and tension seeps out of his shoulders. Phil sees this and rubs a comforting hand over his shoulder. 

 

The whole argument’s settled in the pit of Dan’s stomach as a nasty coil of anxiety yet he refuses to let it go. He hangs onto it, the way he used to grip the swing set chains in the old park behind the school on Saturday evenings.

 

“Baby,” Phil tries again, voice still sugary sweet and it reminds Dan of the lemonade they used to sip after school while doing homework, when his mom used to bake cookies on her day off and smooth Dan’s hair back from his forehead, leaving a faint lipstick print where his fringe was. 

 

Things were easy and he misses it, that simplicity of not having responsibilities, of being so young and naive. He misses building rocketships out of cardboard boxes when he was seven years old, and he misses being fourteen too, when he was stargazing at Phil’s holiday home the first summer they spent together, with Phil promising to buy Dan the moon (and the sun, and maybe all the stars, too) when they’d inevitably tire of humanity and fly to space.  

 

The urge to cry is tempting but instead he pushes his face into the threadbare pajama shirt Phil’s wearing and takes soft, shaky breaths, in and out until he feels like his chest isn’t closing in on him and his stomach doesn’t quite feel like it’s tightening around itself.

 

“I’m sorry, Phil,” Dan mumbles after a moment. Phil looks at him inquisitively. Dan doesn’t say anything, bites back the “ _ sorry you’re leaving me”  _ and the “ _ sorry I’m such a fuck up” _ that sits on the tip of his tongue, threatening to make a hasty escape into the space between them, a space he finds that feels so much larger these days. 

 

He doesn’t know why he’s apologizing, and a cloud of anger fogs his mind because of that. Phil’s the one that’s leaving  _ him _ : Phil is the one with suitcases piled up in his closet, like he’s ready to bolt out of Dan’s life at any time. The thought leaves a sour taste in his mouth and his stomach lurches anxiously because of it.

 

Phil soothes a hand up and down his arm, methodically repeating the movements and hushing the white noise in Dan’s head. They’ve been friends- now boyfriends, for long enough that Phil knows exactly when Dan’s panicking and precisely how to calm him down. He could always count on Phil for comfort, a warm, soothing voice and soft hands cupping his cheeks, thumbs brushing away the beginnings of tears. 

 

“Dan, try to get some sleep, okay?” It’s phrased like a question but Dan knows it’s not. He obeys, closing his eyes and focusing on the soft stroke of Phil’s hand, the grounding weight on his hip and the steady rise and fall of their chests. They’re not breathing in sync and no matter how hard Dan tries, he can’t get their breaths to match up. His own breathing is too erratic and quick. 

Somewhere between hyperventilating and trying to calm the headache burning behind his eyes, he falls asleep, still pressed to Phil’s front and clutching Phil’s hand like a lifeline.

 

: :

 

Like usual, Dan can never stay asleep when he’s anxious. When he sits up in bed the next morning he notices the clouds are gorgeous shades of lilac and rose, the sun shyly peeking out from behind its creation. He doesn’t feel as if he slept at all, but being used to the feeling of exhaustion means he can ward it off with a cup of coffee and a hot shower. They don’t have to be awake for another hour, but Dan’s grown tired of tossing and turning beneath the cold sheets. Phil snoozes away peacefully, unaware of Dan’s turmoil. His gentle, barely-there snores are the only sounds filling the room. 

 

Out of his own habits when he can’t sleep, he arranges his pillows behind his back as a cushion, then begins to write. His pen inks messy scrawls across the page about the deep blue of Phil’s eyes, and how numb it feels to be sitting next to someone who won’t be there in 2 months time. The page following is inked with writing about how cruel and terribly heart wrenching it is to realize that people are  _ temporary _ . 

 

He hates that word: it defines everything malevolent in his life. Everything temporary single handedly manages to destroy him with the way he latches onto temporary things with a vice grip.  _ Phil is temporary _ , he realizes, about half way through a paragraph. He’s a hurricane barreling through Dan’s life, and while a rainstorm is pretty and soothing, a hurricane leaves you wrecked and shaking and  _ scared _ . 

 

He’s spent his whole life being scared, and Phil is all of his greatest fears and wildest dreams crafted into an enigma. 

 

Two hours later Phil begins to stir. His hair is mussed all over his head and he looks soft and sleepy. Dan desperately tells himself not to get used to it, but against better judgement lets himself relish in the haze of the early morning, in the disoriented movements Phil makes when he moves to nuzzle Dan’s neck, only to fall asleep once again. 

 

Seven A.M. comes way too quickly for Dan’s liking. They both stumble out of bed lazily, elbow to elbow in Phil’s tiny bathroom with toothpaste remnants at the corner of their mouths. 

 

Phil’s mom is bright and enthusiastic when they pad down the stairs. She envelops Dan in a warm hug and kisses Phil’s cheek before placing hot plates of waffles, eggs and bacon in their hands. The heat of the plate is comforting and sets a warm fire in his heart. The Lesters are lovely to Dan, always have been since he first came over in the beginning of freshman year. 

 

He’s a little nauseous at thinking about graduation but nevertheless scarfs down the plate in front of him with unfettered enthusiasm. Phil giggles at this display but does the same; they laugh and play footsie under the table until their plates are clean and Phil’s mom is shooing them up the stairs. 

 

“So, graduation,” Dan says when they’ve reached upstairs. He tries for a calm tone, but Phil shoots him a knowing look and Dan too knows Phil sees right through him. 

 

“I know you’re nervous - you don’t have to be. I’ll be there right with you: Dan and Phil, taking on the high school class for the last time.” Phil’s voice is soothing, wrapping around Dan like a warm blanket on a cold winter’s day, working to mitigate any fears he has. 

 

“Yeah,” Dan swallows thickly and averts his gaze to the floor. “Yeah,” he repeats again and tears prick at his eyes and he doesn’t know why: maybe it’s because he’s exhausted and he didn’t get any coffee, or maybe it’s the sheer shock of being an adult by societal standards after today. But, whatever it is, he realizes it dawned on him like an ice cold bucket of water being dumped over him. 

 

“Dan,” Phil says, his name laced with sadness in the vowel and something inside Dan crashes. He lowers his head down onto Phil’s shoulder, wraps his arms around him and weeps. They’re not loud, bone wracking sobs: those are secret, the ones he tucks away from Phil when he’s most vulnerable and frantically trying to sew the seams of his emotions back together. 

 

Now, it’s soft sniffles and rolling teardrops soaking the collar of Phil’s shirt, quiet hiccups and Phil’s hand running up and down his back in an effort to hush his worries.  _ It’s okay, _ the gestures say.  _ I’m here for you _ . 

 

_ You’re leaving me, _ Dan wants to say, but he doesn’t, instead crying a little more, then wiping his eyes on the back of his hand. Still visibly shaken, he tries to give Phil a half hearted smile to fix the situation. Mercifully, Phil accepts it and doesn’t press the sudden crying spell. Dan feels inexplicably guilty that Phil’s most likely used to Dan’s random bouts of existential despair and muffled sobs at god-awful hours of the morning, but he doesn’t mention that either. Instead, he just squeezes Phil’s hand as a silent  _ “thank you” _ . The squeeze back says “ _ You’re welcome,” _ and for now, he lets himself think things will be okay. 

 

: :

 

The ceremony is bursting with celebration and posh families. In short, it’s awful. Teachers who hated him and parents who called him a bad influence have smiles pasted on their faces and shake Dan’s hand like they  _ know _ him. It’s an excruciatingly long time before he gets to slip back inside his mother’s car and shuck off his cap and gown. Under it, he has shorts and a t-shirt, much more liberating. 

 

He turns on the air conditioner and takes out a book full of poetry to occupy him while Phil makes his rounds of small talk. Dan wants to be with him, he really does, but it’s painfully awkward and leaves a sour feeling looming over him. 

 

From where he’s sitting he can see Phil, dressed smartly and looking as dapper as ever. Book forgotten on the passenger seat, he watches as Phil throws his head back and laughs, gleeful and gorgeous. The clumsiness he usually walks with is gone and he flows through the crowd of people, shaking hands, exchanging hugs and posing for selfies with classmates. 

 

He should be there, relishing in his last few moments as a student; as a  _ kid _ . All he feels is an ache in his heart and a strong desire to sleep. 

 

Phil’s graduation dinner is tonight, but he doesn’t think he’ll go. Any other time he probably would, he  _ knows _ he would, but he doesn’t want to sit with Phil’s family and listen to them speak about Phil’s bright future and regard Dan with pity and a hint of disdain for his choices. He knows they don’t mean to be disdainful, and he doesn’t blame them for being so. Nobody ever pictures the star student with the class outcast, and that’s what Dan has always been - just a step away from normal. So, he’s learned to brush off the side comments and steel himself against criticism. 

 

Dan shakes his head to himself and then hunches over with a sudden rush of melancholic air. He cradles his head in his hands and groans. The feeling engulfs him like the tide laps at the seashore at night.

 

“Oh, god.” His voice is pained as he tries to get a hold of himself, but his façade falls short and he finds himself struggling to breathe. The car is suddenly too small, too tiny, too  _ restricting _ and he struggles against the door handle before flinging it open and breathing in the fresh air. 

 

At this point, he decides walking home will be the best bet for him. He swings his backpack on and starts on his route, leaving his cap and gown in the car.

 

He hears Phil call for him, but he doesn’t look back.  _ Don’t look, don’t look _ : he repeats his mantra until he’s out of the parking lot and onto the sidewalk. 

 

There’s a petulant anger that settles inside of him as he begins walking. He kicks aimlessly at pebbles strewn across his path and grumbles at strangers languidly taking a morning stroll. It’s still quite early, the Sun not yet at its peak, and there’s a cool breeze taking the edge off of the humidity. The smell of coffee lingers out from his favorite café, and the atmosphere is familiar enough to settle the fire inside Dan. 

 

The oppressive hold on his chest has loosened. However, he still doesn’t want to face Phil yet, so he takes a shortcut back home and enters through his backyard instead of the front. The house is empty, his mom most likely gone back to work after she realized Dan had left early. He can faintly see makeup remnants on the note left on the kitchen counter and smell her perfume on his cap and gown folded on his duvet. 

 

He collapses face first into the bed, boneless and exhausted. His phone goes off, once, then twice: two text messages from Phil, probably asking him why he ran off, and another asking if he’s okay. 

 

He squints at his phone screen from under the covers. His lockscreen is a picture of him and Phil from some party back in junior year. His cheeks are rosy red and their faces are squished together. He remembers it clearly, tipsy off of cheap booze and their long bodies pressed together in a too tiny photo booth. He wonders if Phil feels the same pang of nostalgia when he looks at old photos of them. He must: he has a picture of them from freshman year, wide eyed and naive pinned up on his bulletin board, then another one this time from a sophomore’s sweet sixteen tucked in his wallet. They looked happy, he notes, smiling wide, Dan’s ocean-deep dimples on display and head thrown back in giddy laughter.

 

In between scrolling through pictures and swiping away notifications, he falls asleep. 

 

: :

 

Waking up, he’s bleary eyed and disoriented, still cocooned in his blankets and his mind scattered in different places. There's a soft rapping on his door and he wipes away the sleep from the corner of his eyes, stumbling towards the sound and flinging the door open. 

 

Phil’s standing there, dressed in jeans and an old band t-shirt, hair ruffled and without contacts. Dan blinks, confused and hazy, walking in a daze and still trying to comprehend where he is, what time it is and why the fuck Phil’s outside his bedroom door. 

 

“What?” Dan blurts out. It isn’t meant to be rude, nor does it come out that way. It’s more confused and soft than anything, because his neck hurts from the way he slept and all he wants to do is relish in the way Phil manages to look like the sexiest thing Dan’s ever seen in just casual clothes. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Phil braces his hand on Dan’s bedroom door as if he’s expecting Dan to slam it in his face. “Whatever I did, Dan, I- I’m sorry, I don’t-” Phil sighs and by the way his voice cracks at the end leads Dan to think he’s going to cry. His stomach lurches again because Phil, despite how Dan feels about their future, has always been the nicest person to Dan. He knows he’ll remember this the most, the kindness he doesn’t deserve written in every poem he’ll ever write - every person he’ll speak to will see the guilt hidden in his eyes. But, he reminds himself that Ivy League college boys with bright futures ahead of him  _ have _ to be nice, they  _ have _ to emulate the meticulous “nice boy” image, from every sentence that crawls out of their mouths right down to the brand of socks they wear. He feels lugubrious as he watches Phil run a hand through his fringe and wipe conspicuously at the corners of his eyes. 

 

“I- I’m not mad at you, Phil.” Dan steps forward and places a hand on Phil’s shoulder, rubbing softly with his thumb. He wants to kiss away the frown on Phil’s face and cover up the bruises around his heart. 

 

“But why haven’t you talked to me? You ignored me at graduation, and then you left.” Phil’s voice is pleading and a strained expression takes on his features. Dan steps closer and takes Phil’s face into his hands, Phil following suit to where they're both cupping each other’s jaws softly and looking into each other’s eyes. Dan wants to pull away, unable to handle the swimming pools of color in Phil’s eyes and the sudden urge to write sonnets about the specks of yellow in his irises. 

 

Dan kisses the corners of his lips, then his forehead. Phil giggles as Dan peppers small bursts of affection on his face and says his silent apologies. They don’t have sweet moments like this all the time. They save them for when they need them the most: after long tedious days of mock exams and revision, when the night comes down heavy and hard and Phil shows up at Dan’s doorstep with his duffel bag and a tub of raspberry sorbet. They always seem to know each other in the most intricate ways. Thinking about it causes a miniscule smile to make its way onto Dan’s face. 

 

“Let’s get out of here,” Dan says suddenly. He’s gripping Phil’s face hard, not enough to hurt but just enough to convey a feverish longing for  _ something _ . 

 

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Phil’s hands are gripping Dan’s wrists and rubbing small circles around the veins at the base of his palm. They’re gazing into each other’s eyes, breathing heavily as if they’ve run laps around the neighborhood. For a moment, Dan doesn’t say anything, his grip loosening slightly on Phil’s jaw so Phil latches onto Dan’s wrists even tighter. 

 

“Let’s leave, me and you - let’s get out of here.” It’s spoken softly, a secret only they know. Phil’s eyes furrow for a moment and Dan closes his eyes so he doesn’t see the rejection painted across his features. He thinks it’ll hurt more than hearing the words come out from Phil’s mouth. He’s delicate with Dan, and Dan trusts Phil will let him down gently, a backhand smack to the face then a soft hand to press an icepack against the bruise immediately after.

 

“Where, and when?” Dan’s eyes shoot open. Phil’s expression is open, not harsh or the least bit judgemental as expected.  _ Where and when, where and when  _ \- the words repeat over like a scratched vinyl record, stutter and playback, something like habit. 

 

“Fuck, I don’t know. I didn’t think you’d say yes.” Dan lets out a dry laugh and runs a hand through his hair. He steps to the side, inviting Phil in and shutting the door softly behind him. “Would your parents even let you leave?” He’s lost momentum, unsure and shaky, stumbling over his words.

 

“Maybe,” Phil says, pondering for a moment before flopping back onto Dan’s bed and tugging Dan down with him. “Where’d we even go?” 

 

“Somewhere under the stars,” Dan muses, staring up at the ceiling and playing with a strand of Phil’s hair. 

 

“Pretentious.” Phil’s tone is teasing, yet not malicious. Dan laughs, because it’s true, because he knows damn well every poem in his notebook compares the beauty marks littering Phil’s arm to Orion’s belt and the specks of yellow in his irises to the shooting stars reflected in the twilight sky. He laughs because it’s true: he’s ostentatious and in love with a boy who’ll be gone in the blink of an eye, in a streak of light and an explosion, little pieces of an asteroid the only evidence he ever existed.

 

“You like it when I’m pretentious,” Dan mumbles, petulant and defiant. This time Phil’s quiet laugh breaks through to the surface, bubbling up and spilling over, high pitched but never obnoxiously loud. Dan wonders if Phil’s laughing because it’s true or because it’s far-fetched.

 

He never works up the courage to ask.

 

: :

 

They order pizza later that night, and with grease stained fingers map out their route. Phil wanted to go old-school, with just a ridiculously big map and a highlighter to mark their journey, but Dan refused. The last thing anyone wants is for the two of them to be stuck in the middle of America with a worn out, most likely outdated map. It feels surreal, almost dream like, and it’s all so sudden it makes Dan’s head spin at the thought. 

 

It turns out planning a roadtrip from New York isn’t hard at all. They’ve got a nice sum of money between them, because though Dan’s father is not in his life, he leaves a nice “I exist” reminder in Dan’s bank account every month. In the end, a cross country road trip sounds the best. They don’t want to go just to another state, but instead all the way to “the end of the rainbow,” as Phil put it. He wants to see the world lit up in different colors, wants to see Vegas at night in its neon beauty, wants to see the Grand Canyon’s sunrise and different cities illuminated and bustling with life. 

 

“California, California,” Phil murmurs, pushes his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose, scratches his neck and scribbles something down onto the notebook paper in front of them. The sunset casts shadows across his face and the curtains billow in the evening wind. Dan doesn’t get the chance to write that night, but that’s okay. He finds his fix of poetry tucked into the corner of Phil’s mouth, in between his fingers when he grips Phil’s threadbare t-shirt and pulls him into a slow, languid kiss. Their bodies meld together in a beautiful symphony of whimpers and muffled moans, and he sees sonnets in the pale, rose tinged skin of Phil’s collar bones. Phil looks gorgeous, splayed out and wanton under Dan’s touch.

 

Dan relishes in the power, in the way Phil arches up to Dan’s lips, the passion-fueled scratches lacing the span of Dan’s back when he comes.

 

“Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous,” Dan tells Phil as he comes down from his high, his filter lost underneath the lingering heat of the moment. 

 

“You’re so good to me,” Phil tells Dan in between kisses and trying to be as close to each other as possible. Dan looks down at Phil, takes in the way he manages to look so innocent yet terribly erotic. It makes Dan want to  _ ruin  _ him. Phil’s shirtless, sweaty with his hair mussed around his face, cheeks as rosy as the red lines marking Dan’s back. He’s beneath Dan and all his, for the moment. They’re both consumed with the thought of each other, basking in the blissful high.

 

“Next time,” Dan says, leaning down so his lips graze the shell of Phil’s ear, eliciting a shiver from the boy under him. “I’ll take you apart piece by piece, until you’re begging, begging for me to let you come. I’ll take you apart under the stars and give you so many marks you’ll be your very own galaxy,  _ my _ very own galaxy.” Phil moans and pulls Dan flush against his chest, and whilst there’s no comment about being ostentatious, Dan knows if Phil wasn’t so turned on he’d hear Phil’s ringing, bell-like laugh flutter out into the atmosphere.

 

The moment is heated, a blanket of desire unfolding and settling onto them like snow blanketing a forest floor. They don’t mention it in the morning, but the way Phil squirms and blushes when Dan eyes the vibrant, bruises littered across his neck, says it all.

 

They fall asleep wrapped in each other’s body heat. The air conditioner hums softly somewhere in the background, and Phil’s hand finds it’s way through Dan’s fringe. It quiets the buzz in Dan’s head, and allows him to close his eyes to focus on the slow movements, the soft stroke of nails on Dan’s scalp. 

 

: :

 

Exactly 6 days later, suitcases are shoved in the back of Phil’s brother’s pickup. The lie of “We’re going to Florida and back!” sits on the dashboard and flickers in the spaces between Dan’s mother’s text messages. He promises himself he’ll get her a nice postcard and t-shirt to make up for her troubles. He loves his mother, he really does, but she meddles so suffocatingly that if Dan didn’t lie, she’d bother him a lot more often than she’s bound to thinking it’s only Florida.

 

Montauk is their first stop. There was a similar longing between them to feel sand beneath their feet and hear waves crashing in their ears. 

 

“How long is it to Montauk?” Dan turns to Phil, for a moment admiring the soft curve of his cheeks and the crinkles by his eyes when he smiles, bright and beautiful like the sunshine peaking through the clouds. He’s gorgeous, and Dan so desperately wants to reach out and caress his cheeks, but he also wants to get to Montauk, and if he riles Phil up they’ll end up pulled over and in the backseat. Instead, he settles for smiling back, just as brightly and charged with the same enthusiasm Phil has.

 

“An hour or so, I think. That is, if Google Maps hasn’t failed me and we’re actually on the right route,” Phil’s eyes flicker over to the GPS a little nervously, but all in good spirit. They hit a speedbump and Phil winces. Motion sickness is never fun, especially for Phil, but he insisted on driving, an attitude so adamant and determined it reminds Dan of a stubborn five year old. Dan found he couldn’t possibly say no, but he knows he’ll end up driving soon. Phil will relent by the time they reach the rest stop, a little paler than usual and clumsy with nausea. Dan will then do what he always does: pull Phil’s head to his chest and make him close his eyes, breathe with him for a little while until they’re ready to continue again. 

 

“Did you remember to take something for the nausea?” Dan asks, voice affectionate and sincere in a way that Phil finds he can’t be annoyed with him for coddling. He secretly likes it, though, likes knowing that there’s someone in the world who will give them their umbrella in the pouring rain or shuck off their jacket and drape it over his shoulders on a breezy evening. Dan’s always been that way, caring towards him with a burgeoning affection that over time filled even the smallest of spaces in their relationship.

 

“Mhm,” Phil hums noncommittally, his way of saying, “ _ I forgot but I’m not going to give you the satisfaction of telling you that _ .” Dan raises his eyebrow, but leaves it and turns back to the view in front of them. An unknown acoustic song plays from their Spotify as they cruise down the street into traffic. A couple more bumps in the road and an unexpected stop from a driver that cuts them off (Dan yells a few choice words that include as many ‘fuck you’s’ as he can verbally fit into a sentence) has them pulling over at what Dan finds out is the only rest stop on their route. 

 

“You’ve turned quite a lovely shade of translucent,” Dan comments when Phil lays his head on Dan’s lap, moaning pitifully. He pushes Phil’s shirt up and rubs comfortingly over the center of his stomach, cool hands like a cold glass of lemonade on the hottest of summer days, a blissful relief in the humidity and a settle to the turmoil of nausea.

 

“Don’t talk - I shouldn’t have drove - just, don’t say I told you so,” Phil says into Dan’s leg, eyes still closed and lashes fluttering when he blinks up at Dan. Dan laughs and it breaks off into a fond sigh as he pushes Phil’s fringe off his clammy forehead, smiling down fondly at Phil.

 

“I won’t say I told you so, but I’ll say don’t puke on me,” Dan warns, but he doesn’t push Phil off his lap.

 

“No promises,” Phil mumbles and grasps Dan’s other hand in his own. “You’re so good to me,” he says, his words slurred with drowsiness and his voice deep and slow, like molasses trickling out a jar. Dan splutters for a moment, taken off guard, like a cat accidentally splashed with icy water. 

 

“You’re not dying, Philly, but I appreciate your affection.” The sarcasm is juxtaposed with his fond tone and the loving look etched into the crinkles by his eyes and sunk deep into the dimples on his cheek. 

 

“I feel like I’m dying, so shut up,” Phil says. Dan laughs and Phil glowers at him. It’s nothing out of the ordinary: half the time they’re bantering and throwing wii remotes at each other, fighting over Mario Kart. The other half of the time, they’re a sickeningly sweet couple, holding hands and pressing small kisses to pink tinged cheeks.

 

Dan’s smile falters a little, because who will fill the absence when Phil inevitably leaves? Phil is truly unique, and anyone who’s ever met him knows that. Under the professional façade he’s put up over the years, he’s a sweetheart, a true ray of sunshine in Dan’s storm of existential crises and muddled doubts. He’s written about it before, the way Phil’s eyes light up when he’s passionate, a blinding smile that turns heads in a room. The center of a universe, the core of happiness - the source of it all - is most definitely Phil Lester. 

 

: :

 

They start driving a little later than originally expected. Dan deliberately drives slow, avoids all bumps, and curves around sharp bends with such a buttery smoothness that Phil doesn’t even stir in the passenger seat. After some time, sleep pulls Phil under and Dan turns the radio off, the only sounds being the rush of passing cars and the soft snores filtering from Phil’s mouth, quiet breathing and the occasional muttered curse from Dan. An hour in, and he begins wonders if anyone else would ever appreciate Phil as much as he does, and although he hates to admit it, without Phil there with cheesy jokes and peculiar stories, the void grasps him. It grasps him and with a golden key, unlocks the door to his cranium and let his thoughts and fears run unfettered.

 

It’s the same thoughts, he notes, running crop circles all over his mind and he winds down the same path over and over, a familiar routine, an old song, an old poem. Part of him wishes he’d stop wishing for a better future and go after it himself: beg Phil to for once, stay, stay for him, and spin a tale of new beginnings and a life away from society's expectations. 

 

Reality bites, and wishing leads to too much hopefulness and shards of a broken heart. Ivy League college boys break hearts and the ones who get their hearts broken, spend the rest of their days mourning the  _ has been _ and the  _ could have been _ and breaking pencils on bitten-back words and drying tears with sweater sleeves that have melancholy sewn in their seams. 

 

: :

 

It’s mid-afternoon when they make it, the beach breezy and cool. The sun darts out from behind the clouds, making it not unbearably hot, but a generally good day. Dan laughs as Phil applies sunscreen all over his body, then growls and chases him when Phil slaps some onto his own cheeks. It smells horrible and when they tackle each other into the sand, the lotion makes little grains stick to their faces and bodies. But, Dan doesn’t mind: he just laughs, swipes at the sand stuck to his cheek, and bounds after Phil again. The water laps at their heels as they run across the shore. 

 

Dan learns what euphoria feels like, and he learns the way Phil’s skin tastes when they trudge out of the ocean, waterlogged and exhausted but euphoric, always euphoric. He learns what it feels like to be unknown, something you lose after seeing the same people for four consecutive years at school. He learns that Phil realizes the anonymity also, without Dan having to mention it - (he learns this somewhere between being pressed against their truck with his hands gripping Phil’s waist and letting Phil suck red and purple hued bruises without a care to the people passing by). Here, they aren’t Dan Howell and Phil Lester, they’re two lovers, they’re " _ goddamned teenagers" _ , as one angry passerby put it. 

 

They couldn’t do this back home, not by a long shot.

 

: :

 

“Is it supposed to rain tonight?” Phil asks, gazing up at the sky. They’re hand in hand, arms slightly swinging and walking in step as they follow directions to a local Italian place for dinner.

 

“No, why?” Dan looks over. Phil looks whimsical, wonder clouding his features as he turns to face Dan.    
  


Phil grins, grips Dan’s hand harder and rocks back and forth on his heels. “Wanna sleep under the stars tonight, baby?” A smile breaks it’s way onto Dan’s face, his features soften as he laughs with astonishment and he nods, enthusiastic and ever-so-willing.

 

They’d prepared for this, the two of them being huge space nerds, but Dan didn’t think it would happen on the first night. They spread their duvets on the bottom of the back of their pick-up and pile pillows towards the front. It isn’t cold at all, but Phil spreads a thin sheet over their bodies because neither of them are able to sleep without some sort of blanket. It envelops their forms together and in the process Phil snuggles into Dan’s chest. 

 

Dinner is pizza and pasta from the Italian shop; they devour it, taking bites of each other’s food in between bites of their own and kissing tomato sauce off the corners of their mouths.

“There’s Orion’s belt,” Phil exclaims and points to a cluster of stars in the sky. Dan follows Phil’s gaze, and though it’s not Orion’s belt, there are definitely many, many stars out tonight. The moon shines brightly never alone, surrounded by an abundance of stars. They both find the universe fascinating, an unknown void begging to be discovered. 

 

“That’s not Orion’s belt, Phil,” Dan says softly, twining their fingers together and resting his head on Phil’s shoulder. Phil frowns, deep in thought and then speaks again. “Then it’ll be Dan’s belt,” he declares with a smile as lovely as Dan always expects his smiles to be.

 

“My belt?” Dan asks, head cocking to the side as he twists to settle his gaze on Phil. Phil gently turns his head back to the sky and makes an affirming sound. “You see,” he begins, pointing up at the bundle of light, “They’re your stars, and whenever you feel lost or unsure, remember that the stars will always lead you back home, and that they’re rooting for you, like I always am.” Phil smiles and then ducks his head away. Dan’s at a loss for words, because everything he wants to say, every love confession he’s ever imagined, is sat on the tip of his tongue, and stuck in his throat.

 

He surges forward and captures Phil’s lips between his own. They kiss with hunger, moving closer and closer, covering themselves with the duvet and rolling in the sheets. Dan traces  _ i love you _ a thousand times over, and Phil traces back  _ I love you too _ , and it’s soft and barely there but Dan can make out the deliberate scratching of his nails against the skin of his back. It feels like a promise, the way Phil traces the words over, spanning the skin of his back. It should  _ be _ a promise, but Dan knows better, although he won’t say anything (and maybe Phil knows too, somewhere under the heat of the moment, that in between the spaces of the words he traces are empty promises). 

 

They’re parked far away from the other cars in the parking lot to where no one can see them, and that’s okay, too. This is their moment, private and intimate, for no one’s eyes and no one’s thoughts but their own. Dan thought they were asking to be kidnapped by sleeping outside but Phil objected, saying they could use the privacy.

 

He understands why now and silently thanks Phil for thinking ahead, always being observant.

 

: :

 

One of the downsides to sleeping under the stars is the fact that there are no blinds or curtains to shut against the sunlight. So, when the moment dissolves into cosmos and the sun rises at 5:15 in the morning, Dan’s awake bright and early, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The hotel parking lot is illuminated with warm sunshine, and it reminds him a bit of Phil as he stretches and rolls over in the morning heat. As Dan sits up, his hands find the black leather-bound journal he brought with him.

 

This journal is his favorite: out of all the others that sit in an immaculate row on his bookshelf, he’s always used this one. It’s nothing special, a standard black moleskine journal, but Phil bought it for him, which is probably why he’s drawn to it the most. Phil, ever so kind and generous, bought it for him when he found out Dan liked to write. He didn’t see the purpose of it at first, what with not having written for weeks due to a severe case of writer’s block and being on the brink of giving up. But that night he’d sat, legs crossed and journal resting on his lap, noticing then that Phil had doodled gold stars in sharpie on the cover (and he laughed, feeling jubilant for the first time in weeks) and decided that maybe it was worth picking up a pen again.

 

Now, his hands are stained with blue ink as they fly across the paper with habitual ease. Poems and journal entries spill out onto the page in front of him. He writes about the fading bruises he left on Phil’s neck and the punch to the gut he gets every time Phil smiles at him. 

 

Phil looks gorgeous from where Dan is so he scribbles about that too, how the sun shines onto his cheekbones and makes him look soft, ethereal and glowing. One of Dan’s Kanye t-shirts adorn his form, though it’s slightly too big and slips off of his shoulders, exposing collarbones and faintly freckled skin. 

 

Dan once thought romance novels exaggerated these moments, where you see your partner and you’re hit with a tidal wave of love and as it washes over you, makes your cheeks tinge pink with a sudden urge to grab their face between your hands and kiss them with a fiery surge of passion. These are the movie theatre moments that every blockbuster Hollywood movie seems to have, the loving, passionate moments fueled by an untameable urge to be together. 

 

Dan still thinks he’d be the antagonist in Phil’s universe, but with Phil as the protagonist, he doesn’t think he’d mind much. 

 

Afterall, how different would it be to their life now?

 

: :

 

“So, Boston next I presume,” Phil chirps from the front seat of the truck. His head’s stuck out the window, grinning and smiling in the morning light. Dan smiles back, half-hearted and sleepy. 

 

“Mhm, Boston, I suppose,” Dan mumbles, somewhat disgruntled now because isn’t Harvard in Boston? Dan’s sure of it, his mother spoke about the school for ages, to the point where Dan became so forlorn about his future that he moped for days, refusing to leave his bedroom, blasting sad piano playlists from his Spotify. The sadness closed in on him, curled around his chest with a vice grip almost impossible to break. Some days, he still doesn’t think he’s shaken all of it off.

 

Phil’s smile droops at the corners like palm trees weighed down by a heavy downpour and Dan regrets opening his mouth immediately. Phil beckons him forward and grips Dan’s face in his hands when Dan reaches him, soft thumbs running across smooth skin and tracing the crescent moons under his eyes. What could’ve been a crescendo of emotions is calmed now. 

 

“Hey,” Phil chides softly, tone gentle, one that Dan associates with  _ safe  _ and  _ home _ . He knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help himself, or the way his body automatically leans into Phil’s touch, with closed eyes and delicate motions nuzzling into the warm palm resting under his cheekbone. 

 

He takes a deep breath, eyes still closed before responding, “Hi.” Another deep breath, and he can feel Phil’s concern practically radiating off the other’s body. He’s not particularly sad right now, but it’s there like it always is, lurking in the shadows waiting for the right moment to grasp Dan.

 

“Come on, you’re okay, what’s going on in that pretty mind of yours?” At that, the beginning of a smile plays at the corner of Dan’s lips, heart flipping just a little at being called  _ pretty _ and he’s sure he’ll never get over that. Phil is the first one to call him  _ gorgeous _ or  _ lovely _ . 

 

“Nothing.” Dan averts his eyes now. He won’t ruin this with his mood; he absolutely refuses to shatter the pretty picture they’ve painted, their cotton candy sweet moment, one you can still taste hours later and have remnants of - the moments you remember, and ultimately the moments that hurt the most.

 

His stomach twists painfully when Phil makes a displeased noise but he  _ hopes _ (and  _ God _ , how he hopes) Phil will drop it. 

 

Of all the situations of heartbreak and rejection, this has got to be the weirdest one Dan’s gone through. How do you save yourself from inevitable heartbreak? It’s all so confusing in the same way his physics homework used to make his head spin. 

 

Once again lost in a runaway train of thoughts, sounds turn into words, turn into Phil’s voice and he’s back again. 

 

“Huh?” Dan asks, blinking twice and feeling his face heat up with the red-hot embarrassment he’s used to feeling when he retreats into his own mind. Phil eyes him carefully, and hesitates before speaking.   
  
“I was asking if you were ready to get going? Are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been acting so-”

 

“Phil. Drop it!” Dan snaps and jerks away from Phil’s grasp, anger suddenly mixing with the blood in his veins, coursing through his heart and leaking, hot and potent from the side of his mouth. 

 

The hurt look on Phil’s face makes him feel an unreal sensation of pain in his chest. He finds an apology is lodged somewhere in his throat, but he can’t bring himself to say it, can’t bring himself to tell Phil that he’s scared, and that Phil should be grateful that he has it easy. Phil has his whole life planned out for him in meticulous bullet points and goals that will ultimately lead to him having the lifestyle that’s been set for him from day one, the blue house in the countryside with the white picket fence, adorned with 2.5 kids and some sort of medium-sized dog. 

 

He hates that Phil can make him feel all these things, but he’ll never stop loving Phil, won’t ever stop wishing for the  _ could have been _ and the  _ should have been _ . He’ll never stop imagining a future he can’t have because of who he is. 

 

He hopes Phil gets a shiba inu. He’s always wanted one-  _ they’ve  _ always wanted one.

 

“Sorry,” Phil whispers and pulls his head back into the truck. Dan breathes out, annoyed, with Phil, and with himself. He pinches the bridge of his nose, willing the tsunami of emotions inside to settle before it consumes him whole. 

 

Phil’s in the front seat, tapping his hands on the wheel when Dan moves to driver’s side. He doesn’t look at Dan, cold, aloof, seemingly unbothered and it drives a stake through Dan’s heart. He shuffles to the passenger side and gets in. 

 

“I’ll drive to Boston,” Phil says, no emotion, a statement leaving no room for argument. Dan feels forlorn again, chest clenching with sadness as he rests his head on the window and stares off into the distance. Nobody dares to turn the car radio on, and Dan won’t try, just rolls the window down so the wind whips through his fringe and cools the flush of anger still remaining on his cheeks. 

 

Perhaps the silence will do them both some good. 

 

: : 

 

It doesn’t. The silence is deafening, and the tension radiating off of them is almost tangible in a way that makes Dan nauseous. It’s as if he doesn’t exist to Phil, and anytime he looks over, Phil’s eyes are fixated on the road ahead of him with an almost forced concentration clouding his features.

 

The only way to describe it is  _ wrong _ , because this isn’t Phil: Phil is caring and understanding and everything Dan hopes to be but  _ isn’t _ . He knows the fight is his fault (and though part of him blames Phil, he doesn’t want to say something he’ll remember when he’s half drunk at 4:38 AM wondering where he fucked up) but he can't bring himself to collect the scattered sentiments into an apology. 

 

He settles for quietly saying Phil’s name, voice breaking on the vowel. Phil glances at him, for a split second he doesn’t look so angry anymore. 

 

“Hm?” is the response he gets and there’s a sharp remark in the back of his throat that says  _ eloquent much? _ but he swallows it down along with the broken apology and everything he’s never told Phil. 

 

“I-I’m sorry.” Phil visibly relaxes and gives a sympathetic half-smile that reminds him of 60 degree spring days where the sun almost peeks out from behind the clouds. Their hands find each other, squeezing twice in a row, normally their code for  _ it’s okay _ , though right now, Dan knows it means  _ I forgive you _ . 

 

“Sometimes,” Phil begins, still holding onto Dan’s hand and rubbing circles with the pad of his thumb, “I wish you would talk to me when you’re sad instead of lashing out at me.” The guilt seeps back into Dan’s body and his gaze averts to his lap. 

 

“I know,” Dan rests his head on the car window with a sigh, nature whipping past him in a flurry of dark green leaves and a bright blue sky. “I’m sorry,” and this time when he says it, he’s not sure what he’s apologizing for.

 

Phil squeezes twice in a row again and this time it means  _ it’s okay _ and not  _ I forgive you _ . 

 

: :

 

Boston is basking in sunshine and bustling with energy. It lifts Dan’s spirits, making him crack a dimpled smile at Phil; they share a lemonade in the backseat of the pickup, exchanging sugary-sweet kisses and giggles.

 

Dan buries his desolation between the ice cubes at the bottom of the lemonade cup and allows Phil to kiss away the remnants of a frown. It’s comforting, although Dan will never admit it out loud, and Phil won’t ever own up to doing it. 

 

When the sun begins to go down they spend the evening in the hotel room, tangled in pristine white bedsheets with affection littered in the wrinkles. Phil cups Dan’s cheek and kisses him, soft and sweet as always. Remnants of the day’s summer heat cast a soft glow on their bodies, and the whole moment seems to have a honeymoon filter on it, where nothing hurts and dreams come true.

 

“Have you heard back from that publisher?” Phil asks, half of it mumbled into Dan’s collarbone and lost in the kiss he presses to his neck. 

 

“Not yet. I doubt they’ll get back to me, but only time will tell,” Dan muses, and resumes stroking Phil’s hair. He refuses to get upset about the publisher, who did get back to him, but instead with a rejection. So, he doesn’t tell Phil, because Phil doesn’t know rejection and he  _ definitely  _ doesn’t know how it feels to set your future in a home with no foundation and having to hope the walls don’t crumble around you.

 

The worst part is the pity he receives from Phil, who won’t- and never will know- what it’s like to fail. He’s always been on top of his game, catching any mistakes before they happen and never plunging in headfirst without a plan in mind.

 

“I suppose you’re right, but you’ll get an offer - I’m sure of it!” Phil’s voice is sincere and Dan isn’t sure if he wants to smile or cry in response. 

 

Lying feels bad, but the way Phil seems to believe in him makes him feel guiltier than any other time he’s lied. 

 

: :

 

They take pictures with Phil’s polaroid later that night, after the sun is hidden by the horizon and the city is made of stars and neon lights. It’s similar to New York and Dan doesn’t feel so lonely when he’s surrounded by the night life. There are stars in Dan’s eyes when the flash blinds him for a few moments and he tells such to Phil. He gets a giggle in response and another flash of a shooting star illuminating their hotel room.

 

“I’ll be blind if you keep taking photos of me,” Dan whines, covering his face with his hands. His legs are bent, working as a backrest for Phil who’s currently straddling his waist with a baby blue polaroid camera pressed against his face. 

 

“Stay like that!” Phil exclaims and snaps another photo; there’s a whirring sound, and then the small photo lands on Dan’s chest. He tosses it with the other ones surrounding them and then snatches the camera out of Phil’s hands.

 

“My turn - now I can torture you!” he proclaims loudly, then flips them over effortlessly. He doesn’t know why he’s even bothering to document Phil, but it feels right for the moment. There will be time for contemplating his actions in the morning when he inevitably ends up pacing the floors and murmuring to himself. Phil laughs and stretches his arms to take the camera back. Dan holds it over his head and laughs victoriously, features animated and grin spread wide across his face.

 

“But I like taking pictures of you,” Phil mumbles, words a little slurred and barely heard over the sounds of the streets below. Dan lowers the camera from his face and looks at Phil, an incredulous look capturing his face, eyebrows knitted together.

 

“Why?” Dan asks, and Phil shrugs, running his hands over Dan’s bare chest and then letting his fingers play with the buzzed hair at the side of his fringe. 

 

“You’re gorgeous,” he says it like Dan should be aware. A rosy tinge paints Dan’s body from cheeks to chest and he dips his head in nervous laughter.

 

“Hate when you do that,” Dan grumbles, and this time he lets Phil take the camera back.    
  


“Do what?” Phil asks with a laugh and eyebrow raise that reminds him of arrogant pop princes and 50’s bad boys. Dan isn’t sure if he wants to punch or kiss Phil, but he wants to wipe the assured smirk off his face so he settles for a punch in the arm. 

 

“Make me blush!”

 

“For someone who doesn’t like blushing,” Phil says, rubbing his thumb over the heated skin on Dan’s face, “You’re blushing quite a lot, loverboy.” 

 

Dan growls playfully. Phil simply laughs, and this time it’s silenced by a kiss.

 

: : 

 

Sleepiness begins to creep up on them as do the hours of the night. The gentle sound of Phil’s breathing is soporific, almost rhythmic, as Dan reads Tolstoy by the lamplight. The pillows are propped against the headboard as they lay side by side, hands intertwined and legs tangled together. 3AM is for the lonely or the loved, and Dan finds it ironic that he’s somewhat both. 

 

It’s nearing 4:30 AM when Dan decides he’s had enough because words refuse flow out of his pen like water streaming over the sides of a bathtub, and maybe that's why the publisher rejected him, because when it comes down to it, he can't commit to a single piece to write and finish. He's inconsistent. 

 

It isn’t ideal if he’s being honest, inconsistency being the worst thing for a writer. Transitory inspiration and sporadic bursts of writing aren’t what publishing companies are looking for: they’re looking for professional authors with suit and tie attire, authors with years of experience and manuscripts on hand. 

 

The pen drops from Dan’s hands, making a loud clatter against the floorboards that he doesn’t register in his sleep-deprived daze for a few moments. Phil shifts beside him, and then settles back down. He sighs and throws the covers back, beginning to pace. 

 

He’ll be tired in the morning, and despite his best efforts to hide it, Phil will figure it out through the sleepiness etched under his eyes and scribbled across the back of his hand when his shaking hands grip a mug of coffee. He’ll be agitated and caustic, stuck singing the same tune of  _ I’m sorry _ , somewhat like a songbird with a single melody. 

 

4:47 AM, and Dan’s back at the cherrywood desk across the room, writing heartbreak and confusion until his fingers cramp. His vision is blurry and his head feels like it’s full of cotton, but he can’t stop writing. 

 

Somewhere behind him, the bed squeaks with the weight of a person and feet hit the floor like raindrops against a window. Dan’s eyes are burning with the urge to sleep threatening to take over. Phil pads over to him, wraps his arms around his torso and gently pulls Dan up from the chair. 

 

“Come to bed,” he says, with a voice that’s rough like sandpaper, but as soft as the pillows he lays Dan on at the same time. “You said you’d come to bed as soon as you finished that chapter or something.”

 

“Inspiration hit- needed to get things down on paper,” Dan mumbles, ignoring the concerned and slightly annoyed look Phil shoots him. 

 

Exhaustion takes over and Dan’s grateful he won’t be subjected to pitying looks and condescending coddling. 

 

: :

 

The next afternoon, the lump in Dan’s stomach has yet to disappear, and combined with fatigue, he feels ill and forlorn all in one. Phil sympathizes, pressing a mug of coffee for the fatigue into his left hand, and an advil for the headache in his right. The smile pasted on his face when Dan swallows reminds him of the ones his mother used to send his way when he came home with a failing grade:  _ It’s okay _ ,  _ we’ll fix it, we’ll fix you.  _ It stung like the cuts from the playground asphalt when he was six years old, and it hurts more now that he’s spent almost all of his teenage years trying to convince people that he isn't a thing to be  _ fixed _ .

 

He isn’t a product to be molded into and he isn’t sure if Phil understands that anymore, or if he ever did.

 

: :

 

Despite the coffee churning caffeine into his bloodstream, Dan slides into the passenger seat and lets Phil take the wheel on their way to Philadelphia, citing the fatigue and headache as his excuse.

 

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay? We can book another night if you’d like and just leave tomorrow,” Phil suggests as Dan buckles his seatbelt. 

 

Dan shakes his head, regretting it instantly as his head pounds. “No, I’m fine.” He sighs and settles back into the headrest, closing his eyes. 

 

“You haven’t been really yourself since we’ve had that fight,” Phil says, hesitantly almost, like they’re back in middle school trying to answer an algebra problem in front of the class. 

 

“Do you even know who I really am?” Dan mumbles harshly, cutting Phil with a side glare. It feels like effort to even keep his eyes open and fighting with Phil is the last thing he wants to do right now, but he can’t stop the harsh remark that slips from his tongue and cuts Phil where it  _ hurts _ .

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Phil asks, looking more hurt than angry and that itself cuts Dan deeper than anything Phil has ever said or done to him. It seems like all they’re doing is ignoring the tension boiling under the surface, and he’s  _ tired  _ of it. 

 

“You know what it means, Phil!” Dan snaps and fixes Phil with a glare. His heart is pounding and waves of anxious energy are washing over him but he presses on, maintains eyecontact like a predator watching prey.

 

“I’m your boyfriend,” Phil hisses, voice low, but words still as powerful. “I know you better than anyone! I’ve been there for you through everything.” 

 

“Doesn’t seem like that. Since y’know, you’re a rising college student now,” Dan says, now on the brink of tears that threaten to spill over- one does, rolling down his cheek and dripping onto his shirt, but he doesn’t wipe it away. 

 

“Dan,” Phil says and grips Dan’s face in his hands, brushing away tears as they fall. “Is that what this is about? Me leaving?”

 

“Well, what else was it supposed to be about?” Dan chokes out, more tears falling and Phil shushes him, unbuckling his seatbelt and pulling him in as close as possible. Dan feels embarrassed and itches to get his feelings out on paper again. 

 

“Things are going to be okay, Dan. Everything will be fine.” 

 

_ No, they won’t _ . Dan wants to scream. He settles for a sigh instead and nuzzles into Phil’s shoulder. 

 

Phil doesn’t start driving until Dan’s cries are reduced to sniffles and his heart doesn’t quite feel like it’ll burst out of his chest. The lump in his stomach is still there, but it doesn’t feel as heavy as it did this morning. 

 

He counts that as a small victory as they pull out onto the highway. 

 

: :

 

Dan discovers that the world is out to get him when he hits the worst writer’s block he’s had in weeks. As a writer, Dan’s found himself getting used to choppy sentences, lack of inspiration, and nights that seem to drag on fueled by rewriting the same sentence fifty times over and scouring Google for synonyms. 

 

Although, it doesn’t make it any less infuriating when the pen hits his paper and words refuse to come out. The frustration is visible through his clenched hands and exasperated sighs. 

 

Writer’s block is pure frustration, and a reminder of the small voice in the back of his head that says maybe he isn’t as good at writing as he thought he was. He reads in the meantime and tries to tune out the bad thoughts with lusty poetry and romantic tragedies. Phil tries to help as best as he can, by taking Dan out to moonlit bars and kissing him with unfettered desire over cocktails.

 

To Dan’s relief, college isn’t mentioned once. Philadelphia mends the cracks in their relationship with a bandage and a kiss to seal it. Although he can’t write, he doesn’t mind too much when he’s laying next to Phil watching anime on his laptop. Some nights, Phil offers to proofread Dan’s writing, reads to him when they both can’t sleep and Dan’s in desperate need of inspiration, raspy voice curling around Dan’s ears and sparking arousal somewhere inside his abdomen.  

 

It seems as if their world, at that moment, is painted in neon colors, as bright as the signs above and streetlights below them and burning as bright as their love. Despite everything, Dan thinks he’ll always love Phil. 

 

They manage to avoid fighting over the two days they spend in town. The honeymoon filter lets them bask in the sweet parts of love, leaves them giggles in lieu of awkward silences, and fills the gaps between them with soft kisses and brushes of the hand. It lets them believe that everything will be fine.

 

Butterflies beat against their chests to the same rhythm and for a moment, Dan doesn’t feel as detached from Phil as before. 

 

: :

 

“You know something?” Phil murmurs on their last night, brushing a strand of hair out of Dan’s eyes. “You’ve been smiling a lot more.” Phil smiles sleepily, his hand coming to rest on Dan’s cheek as the other boy smiles. 

 

“Have I?” Dan asks, even though he knows the answer. He can’t deny it, knowing he's been feeling a tad bit happier, and it’s foreign to him, but nice to feel, even if it is for a short while. The butterflies flutter around again and paint his cheeks scarlet, matching the tint of his lips and the color of Phil’s t-shirt.

 

Phil hums in response, and Dan wants to ask if he can feel the butterflies too, if there are enough of them in there to weigh him down and fasten him to the bed sheets. Dan shifts closer to him, twining their fingers together and listening to the sounds of the street below. An ambulance drives by, leaving flashing red lights in its wake. 

 

“Guess I’m just happier,” Dan whispers to no one in particular. His stomach lurches as the words leave his mouth and float into the space in front of him. It’s absolutely terrifying to say the words out loud, to let them become tangible and  _ real _ . It’s one thing to have thoughts in your head, but another thing to say them. 

 

Phil’s face breaks into a smile, his cheeks rosy with glee and his tongue pokes between his teeth as he giggles. “Really? You’re happy?” He sounds so joyful while saying it, something like a small child on the last day of school, almost as if he’s been wishing for Dan to be happier this entire time. 

 

“I think so, yeah,” Dan says and believes himself when he says it this time. He is happier, and a miniscule part of him thinks that maybe everything will be fine. There’s a rational part of him that tells him no, that things  _ won’t _ be fine and reminds him of the heartbreak and aching void Phil will leave him with. Right now, he can't bring himself to listen. 

 

: :

 

Colorado, Dan decides, is where he feels significantly less happier. It’s not the environment -it couldn’t be, the city is beautiful and there are sights to see all around them- but he’s homesick, and that doesn’t make much sense to him: he remembers basking in the warmth of Phil’s bed at the early hours of the morning and whispering “You’re my home.”

 

Dan’s not sure where his home is anymore, or if he ever knew where it really was. He told himself that his home has always been between the pages of a novel or between the lines of a journal, but he hasn’t written in what feels like forever, choppy sentences here and there and parts of a story that seem as if they have potential litter the pages of his journal. Dan's sense of security within himself begins to shatter and it’s the scariest thing to go through that again. He feels lonely, despite that he’s surrounded by people, and it’s a familiar feeling but one he didn’t expect on this trip. 

 

Phil notices, but doesn’t say anything. He smiles at Dan sometimes and tells his mother they’re doing “really well” whenever she calls and asks. Dan can’t remember the last time he called his mother on this trip and he thinks he should, but he doesn’t know how to explain to her that his relationship is coming apart at the seams and he doesn’t know how to write anymore or sew it back together. 

 

: :

 

It’s somewhere along the drive to Texas that Dan begins to lose himself. He’s lost sight of why he’s even on this trip in the first place, the feeling leaving a sour taste in his mouth and a frown painted across his face. He’s stopped writing again, after a few days of inspiration, and all-night writing sessions, and he’s noticeably melancholy. 

 

His notebook hasn’t left his bag for days on end, and he finds himself tapping his fingers incessantly to combat the anxiety filling him to the brim. Normally, he’d write, a slew of words and phrases giving him something to do with his hands besides shaking with unease and fear, with it bringing a sense of satisfaction of being able to shut his journal with all of his thoughts safely down on paper, out of his head and tucked in pages that Dan doesn't have to revisit if he doesn't wish to. 

 

He so desperately wants to be able to write again. 

 

Phil’s once again taken notice to his sullen aura, shooting him concerned looks at first that morphed into something annoyed when his mood dragged on for days. It's a weight on his shoulders he can't shake off, anxious feelings gripping him and taunting him at the hours of night where reality feels a little bit altered. 

 

He goes to bed earlier now, afraid of the thoughts burning in his subconscious that wait for the flammable moment that everything crumbles and falls apart around him. The trip becomes a drag and they both feel the tensions pooling beneath the surface. There are no words that flow out of Dan’s pen anymore except for exhaustion written a thousand times over on the palm of his hand. 

 

The fragment of hope that Phil gave him no longer lingers in the curve of his hands when he writes, or in his pocket on cold days where it feels like all his bad thoughts are biting away at his mind like the frigid air nipping at his fingers. It’s all back with Phil now, and Dan thinks he’ll need it to stay hopeful he won’t end up with another lovesick writer (a writer who seemingly forgot how to write) or someone who doesn’t know what it means to be genuinely happy anymore. 

 

He wonders if Ivy League college boys deal with writer’s block and if they’re allowed to sit for days on end with empty notebooks and the sinking feeling that nothing they write will ever be good enough- or that  _ they _ will ever be good enough. 

 

It hurts, like any writer’s block session does, because where there should be the scratching of a pencil on paper or the sound of typing on a keyboard there are only silences and the sound of paper being torn out of a moleskine. 

 

Which isn’t good, for one, because Dan’s running out of paper, and two, because moleskines are fucking expensive. He can’t stop scratching out every sentence he’s written because nothing feels right anymore; he reads back old writing with a sort of incredulous awe and wonders how a publishing company will ever want to keep him on when his only excuse for shitty writing is that nothing feels  _ right _ . 

 

Another thing looming over him like a storm cloud are publishers, who are contacting him for his writing, writing that hasn’t been written yet despite his emails with empty promises of editing taking a while. So far they’ve been fairly benevolent and cordial, but there’s an annoyed tinge in every email that begins with “Mr. Howell”. He’s 18, trying, struggling to make a life for himself when he can’t even get up out of bed on some mornings. He’s terribly homesick, confused and exhausted, to the point where the dark circles under his eyes seem almost permanent and he doesn’t know how he’ll explain to his mother that he wasn’t okay to begin with and he’s never known how to fix that.

 

: :

 

Their hotel room in Texas is capacious: two pristine beds have their places on opposite sides of the room, the spaces between them filled with a bedside table and lamp. The air conditioner makes the room chilly and goosebumps appear on their arms during the night. Somewhere during the late night hours, Dan thinks about how Phil would rub his hands over Dan’s own to warm them up, how he’d press small kisses to each ink-stained finger and trace the lines on his palms like the ones adorning a notebook page. 

 

They don’t do that anymore, the distance becoming tangible. Rarely are there inside jokes shared, and Phil’s stopped asking if he’s okay, only sparing him a concerning glance when Dan’s hands shake a little too much on the steering wheel while they’re driving. Even then, it’s a wordless discussion when they switch positions and Phil, steady hands and stoic expression, begins to drive. 

 

Dan’s not even sure if they’re together anymore- it’s hard to tell the words, and Phil’s broken his heart in a tragically beautiful way. It wasn’t quick and easy, but slow and painful, leaving the worst pain in his chest and making him see different shades of heartbreak every time he looks at Phil. 

 

A small part of Dan thinks that they've been destined for this ending the whole time. He lays back on the cool hotel sheets and reminisces, mind wandering to the mornings he spent in Phil’s bed, writing, how Phil used to regard him with such kindness and gentle touches, almost as if Dan would crumble under his fingers. A hopeful glow inside of him wants to believe that despite everything, Phil still regards him with the same kindness he did when they were terrified freshmen stepping into school on the first day. He wonders if Phil will use the same sugar-sweet voice when he calls someone else  _ baby _ , if his voice will still be the same husky tone when he playfully admonishes someone, grabbing their waist with a frisky growl.

 

In the end, he knows Phil will, because that’s the type of person that he is- the person that Dan once knew.

 

He thinks he should apologize, but the only way he knows how to apologize is through similes and metaphors written with a shaking hand in the starlight, and he’s not sure he knows what he’ll be apologizing for this time. It should be for fucking up a summer holiday that was his idea in the first place, or maybe he could start with addressing his need for being so goddamn sad all the time.

 

He vaguely remembers Phil asking him to talk to him instead of shutting him out, but that moment feels so far away. He remembers everything else, though: all the nights he slept with his back to Phil, the ones where he let his writing consume him until the words began to blur together and all he saw were shades of blue in the lamplight, phosphenes lighting the way to bed because somewhere between the third and fourth stanza his shaking hands crafted, Phil began turning off the ceiling light when the clock struck 2AM. The only thing filling the silences then, was the ringing in Dan’s ears.

 

They’re supposed to drive to Vegas next but the only place he wants to be is  _ home _ .

 

: : 

  
  


For an inane reason Dan has yet to figure out, he decides to continue to Vegas. The thick coil of anxiety in his stomach doesn’t leave, but rather curls itself tighter and tighter around Dan. He wishes he could say he felt numb, that he didn’t have to feel every ache when he reread old journal entries from happier places. Instead, he’s felt lost and anxious, every feeling he vowed to leave behind in high school coming back to haunt him in his most vulnerable moments.

 

Phil’s no help either, but Dan can’t blame him for that. Maybe if he had taken Phil’s advice and  cared a bit more about the future instead of wasting time reading horror novels and writing poems that still sit in abandoned journals, they wouldn’t be in this situation. Phil’s always told him he could have gone to college, maybe not the same one Phil’s going to, but Dan accepted a long while ago that he’s never been Ivy League material.

 

It’s all been ruined now though, and any effort made to rekindle, or maybe salvage what’s left of their deteriorating relationship would be futile. Now, coping is the best thing either one of them can do, and Dan’s wanted to come to Vegas for years. He’s underage- but that doesn’t stop anyone, does it? 

 

Somewhere along the strip of casinos and bars bustling with life he convinces a pretty boy with bright green eyes to buy him liquor. It’s cheap, strong, and quite frankly the most disgusting thing he’s ever drank, but as the technicolor signs begin to blur pleasantly together and the world mutes itself into a white noise sort of background, he finds he couldn’t care less.

 

When he stumbles back into the hotel room he finds it empty, only his suitcases and backpack lay on the floor next to his bed. Somewhere in his drunken haze, he recognizes that Phil must have gotten another hotel room and he laughs (albeit brokenly) at the thought, and as his reality of how things can change so rapidly begins to set in, the laugh morphs into something like a sob and he covers his face with his hands while he weeps.

 

“What am I doing here?” he moans out loud, nobody around to hear him except the dripping faucet in the bathroom and squeaky ceiling fan. It reminds him of the lonely walks he used to take to Barnes and Noble on breezy, Autumn days, and the lonely, rainy sundays spent reading by the lamplight, no other sounds except the ones he makes himself.

 

If he's being honest with himself, he doesn’t know what he’s doing here, lonely and dejected in a motel room that’s probably infested with a variety of insects. He should be home, and while he’s had this thought for quite a while since things have gone to shit, he doesn’t know why it’s taken one and a half bottles of liquor for him to act on it.

 

There’s a lot of things he doesn’t know: why Phil’s always been so prideful, or why he can’t write anything happy without it having a sad undertone that lingers like the smell of petrichor after a rainstorm. The one thing he does know, though, is that there’s a flight from Vegas to New York leaving in 2 days, and he’ll be the first one boarding.

 

The alcohol proves to be soporific and the flight information begins to blur together as he yawns and types furiously, hoping everything is correct and he won’t have to explain to a TSA agent that he bought this flight in a drunken, heartbroken haze and that all he wants to do is feel whole again.

 

He falls asleep to the rhythm of the squeaky fan with the laptop screen emitting a soft blue glow onto his features.

 

: :

 

When Dan wakes, it’s to Phil sitting on the side of his bed. His laptop is open, clearly displaying the confirmation for the flight that he vaguely remembers purchasing last night. He sits up quickly, now plagued by anxiety and feeling slightly self-conscious under Phil’s ominous glare. His stomach drops as he takes in his blurry surroundings and realises that he  _ fucked up _ . His chest heaves up and down as he tries to get his breathing even and simultaneously figure out how to explain this. 

 

It reminds him of being eight years old, hand caught in the cookie jar as he tried to frantically explain to his mother he was only checking to make sure they were all there. It’s similar to this, Dan notes, except the stakes are higher and he can’t help but feel that his entire life is on the line in this exact moment.

 

Maybe it is, because he’s never seen Phil this angry before. He’s a silent-treatment type of guy. It’s a shock to see him, practically fuming, fists tightly clenched and jaw a firm line set with anger. Neither of them say anything for a long beat. 

 

“Is this a joke, Dan?” Phil begins, slowly, his voice raspy though Dan can tell he’s holding back true rage under his calm facade. Dan feels as if he’s frozen to the spot, Phil’s ice cold glare rooting him to the bed sheets and washing frigid fear over his body.

 

“I haven’t even said anything-” Dan starts, although he knows exactly what Phil’s referring to and it’s burning a hole straight through his heart.

 

“The  _ flight _ , Dan, do you want to explain why you’ve booked a flight back home, been sad for the past weeks and not said a fucking word to me other than the basics? I deserve an explanation.” 

 

Dan flinches back, dizzy with a pounding hangover. The room spins around him until the blurry figures begin to focus and materialize into his shitty motel room, now featuring a very angry Phil perched on his bed sheets. 

 

“I can’t do this anymore,” he whispers pathetically, the fight drained out of him. 

 

“You don’t get to say that,” Phil says harshly, moving closer to Dan, anger burning bright in the blue of his eyes. Dan takes a deep breath, holding back tears and flinging the covers back and off of him, wishing it was this easy to take all the weight of the world away.

 

“I’m sorry, I can’t- I can’t stay here and be with you knowing you’re going to leave me behind.”

 

“Maybe if you weren’t so selfish, you’d have applied to college and actually  _ cared _ about our future.”

 

Dan gasps at this, and whirls around, angry now with his fists balled at his side. He knows it's similar to a child’s behavior, but Dan’s sure a kid can’t pack a punch as hard as he can.

 

“It was never  _ our _ future, Phil! You’ve known from the beginning college wasn’t for me! You’ve never accepted it and now you think you can change me, so I’m worthy of your future plans?” Dan moves closer and Phil’s frown gets deeper. They’re toe to toe, breathing heavily and wanting to hit something  _ so  _ badly. “It’s never been our future, you and I both know that.”

 

He steps away from Phil, who’s shell-shocked now. Silence fills the room and Dan isn’t sure what to do with his body or his words. Phil laughs after a moment, dry and sarcastic, now approaching Dan again and shoving his shoulder angrily.

 

“I was stupid, to think Dan Howell would ever sacrifice himself, or his broken dreams, for someone else.” Dan’s eyes harden again at this comment and he shoves Phil back with enough force that Phil stumbles back. 

 

“ _ Fuck you, _ ” Dan says slowly, adrenaline pumping through his veins and all the words he’s held back are now tumbling through open lips. “Fuck you for never believing in me, fuck you for making me love you, and fuck you for making me this way!” 

 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice tells Dan that this is their movie theatre ending- a sad one at that- but with Dan penning the script, he thinks it should have been predictable. 

 

“I never made you love me,” Phil says, more so to the framed painting behind Dan rather than addressing him directly. Dan laughs, sharp and pointed, the sound moving throughout the room.

 

“Fuck you.” Dan repeats and crosses his arms across his chest. Phil doesn’t respond, but has the decency to avert his gaze from Dan. 

 

Neither of them say anything for a few beats. Only the sounds of morning traffic and people bustling around the hallways fill the silences between their breaths. Dan studies his nails, bitten down and jagged from anxious gnawing. He doesn’t look at Phil, and for once, he doesn’t feel the need to. 

 

After a few more moments of angry shuffling, Phil breaks the silence.

 

“Is that all you have to say to me? ‘Fuck you’? You’d think that a writer would have more words than that.” Phil’s tone is sarcastic, biting and condescending that further fuels the fire in Dan’s chest. 

 

“Don’t you fucking dare-”

 

“Dare to do what? Show you reality? That this whimsical dream you have of writing books in different cities and being a well-known author  _ can’t work _ ?” Phil’s eyebrows are raised, knowing he’s cornered Dan by throwing his insecurities back in his face. 

 

“You can’t be a writer if you can’t write, Dan.”

 

Dan doesn’t speak for a few seconds, rendered speechless at the cruelty spilling from Phil’s lips. He ponders for a moment on how quickly those around you can change and use your darkest secrets against you. Somewhere under the rush of anger and adrenaline he registers the empty ache of betrayal in his heart, but he ignores it. 

 

He feels as if the air has been sucked out of his lungs, Phil’s words making a puncture in the flesh and all the sentiments Dan had ready have trickled out through the wound. 

 

“Get out," Dan whispers, now holding back angry tears, refusing to give Phil the satisfaction of seeing him weep out of pain. 

 

They hold eye contact for a few more seconds, before Phil disappears out into the hallway, door swinging shut behind him, leaving Dan alone. Rain begins to pound heavily on the window as he collapses into his pillow and sobs, loud and unfettered in the vast silence of the hotel room.

  
A small part of Dan will always wish for a happy ending, even though he knows he could never write one for them.

**Author's Note:**

> edit: as of 03/17/17 i no longer write for the phandom.
> 
> thank you for the love you have shown this fic, i appreciate everyone who has read this.


End file.
